


Since You Asked

by Magnolia822



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Coming Out, Companionable Snark, Divorced Harry Potter & Ginny Weasley, Falling In Love, HP: Epilogue Compliant, M/M, Older Characters, Pining, Post Hogwarts AU, Starting Over
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-16
Updated: 2018-04-16
Packaged: 2019-04-23 19:17:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14339253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Magnolia822/pseuds/Magnolia822
Summary: Newly retired Draco Malfoy writes an anonymous agony column for theQuibbler, for which he quickly gains a reputation for offering pithy, practical advice. His life is comfortably predictable until he receives a letter from a reader seeking a divorce from his wife of thirty years. The situation seems far too familiar . . . could the writer be the Savior himself?





	Since You Asked

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Sonofsilly for the beta and Omi-Ohmy for the Harry Potterism/Britpick. Any remaining mistakes are my own!
> 
> JK owns the characters; I just make them do things she disproves of. ;)

_Dear M. Grey,_

_My son returned from his third year at Hogwarts with a salacious book from the Restricted Section, The Joy of Wizarding Sex. I found it under his mattress when spelling his room clean the other day. The book is filled with sexual images and includes tips for intercourse. He’s far too young to be thinking about having sex. How can I put a stop to this?_

_-Mortified Mom_

_Dear Mortified Mom,_

_You are utterly deluding yourself if you think your third year, soon-to-be fourth year son is too young to think about sex. I assure you that not only are boys of this age capable of sexual thoughts and fantasies, they think rarely of anything else. You need to have a frank discussion with your son about protective spells and make sure he understands it’s okay to have these thoughts and feelings. You cannot keep him a child forever._

_And please, please stop cleaning your very capable son’s room. Smuggling a book from the Restricted Section of the Hogwarts library is no small feat. Surely this same boy can be tasked with picking up his dirty socks._

_-M. Grey_

***

There were few things Draco Malfoy enjoyed more than sitting down in his study with a steaming cuppa and quill, ready to tackle the latest agony letter for his column. Since he’d begun writing for the _Quibbler_ as a way to pass the time after his retirement from over 25 years of teaching, he had given advice to all kinds of wizards and witches on problems large and small, from how to deal with a neighbor’s pesky Kneazle to what to say to a son or daughter coming out for the first time.

He settled into his leather armchair and looked out over the Manor grounds, which had just begun to bloom for spring, and took a small sip of tea. The first letter was similar to one he had just replied to the previous week, so he discarded it. The second was a plea for help regarding nosy in-laws, and that bored him as well. It went on like this, until the problems of the wizarding world were strewn all over his desk, the voices of their writers clamouring for his attention, their heinous appellations making Draco sigh and close his eyes for strength: Miserable Mom, Desperate Dad, Bothersome Brother. The alliteration was truly appalling. 

_My son wants to go to Drumstang but we want to send him to Hogwarts_ . . . Dull.

_Are there any etiquette rules for gift-giving if the recipient is part-Troll?_ No. Next.

_My best friend posed as me using polyjuice and slept with my girlfriend, but she doesn’t know it was him . . ._

Now that one was intriguing, Draco thought, setting it aside as a finalist. On and on it went as the morning passed. Draco fancied himself a connoisseur of human nature. He’d known hundreds of students and their families over the years, and had his fair share of personal dramas as well, which he felt rendered him particularly astute when it came to affairs of the heart. And of course his sense of etiquette, being a Malfoy, was unparalleled. Very quickly, his reputation had grown, and he received nearly a hundred letters to sort through each week. It was flattering to his ego, even if no one knew he was the writer. He’d taken care not to disclose his identity when he accepted the position from Luna Lovegood, who had taken over from her father soon after his death. Even though he had earned a reputation as a fair and respected Potions teacher at Hogwarts, some people still thought of him as a Death Eater first and foremost, and that would likely never change.

_Dear M. Grey,_

_How do I tell my wife I want a divorce?_

The letter drew Draco up short, written as it was in a scratchy cursive that looked startlingly familiar. He scanned the rest, his heartbeat quickening as it went on.

_I have been married for almost thirty years to my childhood sweetheart. In that time, my wife and I have had children, forged successful careers, and created a loving and comfortable home. Everything seems perfect from the outside, but over the last decade, we have slowly grown apart. Now that the children are on their own, I find myself with nothing to say to my wife, and she, to be fair, seems to have nothing to say to me. We are leading separate lives for the most part and haven’t been intimate for months. This isn’t her fault, because there is an additional complication._

_I think I might be attracted to men, but it is something I’ve never acted upon. Now I find myself fantasising about what it would be like to be with a man, and I can’t get it out of my head. I have never told my wife about these feelings, knowing it would devastate her. Neither of us are happy. Still, how can I break her heart and hurt my children by ending it? And maybe I’m just too old to start over again._

_Thank you for listening.  
William_

Draco held the parchment in both hands, leaning back in his chair with sagging shoulders. He felt himself on the precipice of something huge, and he scanned the letter again and again, his mind racing. 

Childhood sweethearts. Children flown the nest. There were no personal details to give the writer’s identity away, but Draco felt sure, as sure as he had ever felt, that the author was none other than Harry Potter. 

Potter. Draco set the parchment down and folded his hands in his lap. The last time they had seen each other at a charity function for St. Mungo’s, Potter had scowled at everyone and drunk far too much champagne. He had attended alone, and when Draco had approached in spite of Potter’s stormy expression, he had silently budged up to allow him space at the bar. They weren’t precisely friends, but the years had diluted the animosity between them. Now, whenever they met, they traded barbs in a dance of calculated one-upmanship, designed more to entertain than to wound. 

“Has someone charmed a rain cloud over your head?” Draco had asked, his elbows settling on the mahogany. “You look positively dreadful.” 

“Afraid to get wet, Malfoy?” Potter gave him a half-hearted sneer. 

“Actually yes; these are my nicest dress robes. Where is your lovely wife, Potter? It isn’t like her to leave you to your own . . . devices.” Draco gestured at the glass of champagne Potter had emptied with one long swallow, at least his fourth, not that Draco was counting. 

“It’s none of your goddamned business, Malfoy,” Potter replied through gritted teeth with enough real irritation in his voice that Draco had let the matter go, but not without his curiosity piqued. That had been nearly a month ago. 

There were other, more subtle signs, too. Draco had gotten divorced ten years before for nearly the same reason as professed in the letter, only in his case, he was hopelessly bent, and Astoria had finally decided their sham of a marriage tired her. She had left him and moved to Spain with a younger lover, and Draco only saw her now on holidays when she came back to visit Scorpius. There had been times over the past few years when Draco was sure Potter was looking at him in the way that men who liked other men looked at each other—the half-averted gaze, eyes raking up and down, a subtle nod of a head. Of course, Draco had been sure that Potter would never act upon such impulses, sure he didn’t even consciously understand what he was doing, not Head Auror Potter, Savior and dutiful husband. But now Draco was questioning his earlier observations. 

Finally, and most damningly, was the handwriting. Either Potter had no sense of self-preservation or he wanted to be outed in public to save himself the trouble of breaking it off with his wife, but there was no way of mistaking his Hippogriff-scratch, which had become so familiar to Draco in school. Draco didn’t know which was worse, but he was glad the letter had come to him, lest Potter destroy himself—intentionally or unintentionally.

Draco sighed and stretched, cracking his knuckles over his head. He gathered the parchment and spelled it smaller, slipping it into his pocket. It had been a long morning, and he still didn’t know if he should answer the letter or consign it to the rejection pile and save himself from whatever fallout might occur should Potter heed his advice.

Because Draco knew exactly what his advice would be.

***

Harry spelled three pints towards the table where he, Ron, and Neville sat for their weekly post-work meetup. They had been coming to the Leaky on Wednesdays for as long as Harry could remember, and though their faces had changed as they’d aged, some things never did.

“Mate, mate,” said Ron, slapping Neville’s shoulder as Harry approached. “Old Nev has got a secret and he won’t tell. We’ve got to get it out of him. He knows who writes the Since You Asked column for the _Quibbler_.”

“Oh?” Harry slid into the vacant spot on the bench and picked up his pint to disguise the sudden clench of his gut. “Who is it?” 

Neville just shrugged. “Luna will murder me if I say anything, so my lips are sealed.” 

Harry took a long sip and nodded. He knew how secrets between husbands and wives worked, and he didn’t blame Neville one bit. Still, he was intrigued and more than a little nervous at the topic of conversation, since he’d recently sent in his own—as yet unpublished—letter on a whim, or maybe an act of desperation. 

“Just tell us this,” pleaded Ron. “Is it someone we know?” 

Neville rolled his eyes. “Why does it matter so much to you, anyway?” 

“Ron is the first one to the news trolley in the mornings,” said Harry. “He’s absolutely obsessed.” 

“I am not. I just find it interesting, all of those crazy stories people send in. Merlin. Hermione thinks its Pansy Parkinson.” Ron took a long sip of his lager and smacked his lips. “It has that tone, you know, a bit snooty.” 

Harry grimaced inwardly. He hated to think about Pansy Parkinson responding to his plea for help. Even though they were fifty, he’d never quite gotten over her eagerness to hand him over to Voldemort. Godric, Harry would even prefer it were Malfoy. Hermione was rarely wrong, but he hoped she was this time.

“Well, whoever it is, they certainly had an interesting reply this week,” Neville said cryptically.

“You have a copy already? Give it here!” Ron demanded. 

Harry took another long sip of lager, bouncing his knee under the table with anticipation that was equal parts excitement and dread. He’d been that way all week, ever since he’d gotten the courage to put quill to parchment and write his deepest, darkest fears to a stranger. 

Neville was obviously humouring Ron. He reached into his robes and pulled out a folded up _Quibbler_ , which Ron snatched eagerly, then smoothed out on the table between them. 

“Let’s read the letter first,” said Ron. “Oh, this one is good. It’s about a bloke who wants a divorce.” 

Harry’s stomach bottomed out, his palms instantly clammy as Ron read the familiar words. When he got to the part about being—perhaps—bisexual, Ron’s face turned a bright shade of red to match his hair. “Blimey. What a mess. I don’t suppose you know who the writer is, do you Nev?” Neville shook his head as Ron continued. “Because it seems like we could know him, you know. Sounds around our age.” 

The conjecture made everything real, and Harry felt like he might be sick. Still, it wouldn’t do to show the emotion and give himself away. He was grateful for his years on the Auror force that had trained him to remain impassive in tense situations. 

“So, what’s the reply?” Harry asked, hoping his voice sounded normal. 

“Let’s see.” Ron scanned the page. “Okay. _Dear William. Let me begin by commending you for recognising the need to make a change in your life. This is the most difficult and most important step. It is painful to realise that a long-cherished relationship is ending, or already has ended, if what you say in your letter is truly representative of the situation in your home._

_“Second, let me suggest that your potential bisexuality is not the primary issue at hand, though I will return to that momentarily. It sounds like you have fallen out of love with your wife and the feeling is mutual. After thirty years, any partnership will grow and change, and you and your spouse must reckon with those changes in yourselves and your marriage and determine whether there is anything in your union to preserve. If not, you will both be better off going your separate ways._

_“Whether or not you find men attractive in addition to women is not the reason for your marriage falling apart. Many bisexual people lead long, happy lives with monogamous partners. If you wish to explore these feelings outside of your marriage, you should respect your wife enough to tell her the truth and allow her to make her own choices about how to proceed. And, dear William, I fear you are giving her far too little credit in understanding the situation. She is surely aware of the state of things between you and perhaps even your roving eye. Your children, meanwhile, are adults, and their happiness should not be taken into consideration in this matter. They may be angry and side with one of you or the other, but that should not drive your decision._

_“Last, a quibble. No one is too old to start again. It sounds to me like you are not only afraid of hurting the ones you love, you are afraid of being alone. I will not lie and guarantee you a happy ending with another lover if you end your marriage. You may very well end up alone, as might we all. It is the chance you have to take, but I suspect it will be worth it. -M. Grey.”_

“That’s . . . actually pretty good advice,” said Ron, his brow furrowing. “Definitely not as snarky as usual. I hoped it would be funnier.” 

Neville cleared his throat. “What do you think, Harry?” 

For a moment of blind panic, Harry was sure Neville knew he was ‘William’, a name he’d selected at random from a volume of poetry on his shelf, but Neville was smiling nonchalantly, as though he hadn’t just heard the sound of Harry’s world crashing in on itself.

“I think . . . yeah, it sounds like good advice.” Harry took another large sip of his pint, the cool, bitter liquid slipping down too easily. He didn’t want to go home drunk again tonight, as had become all too common. As Neville and Ron’s attention turned to work and Quidditch, leaving the column behind, Harry’s mind kept circling the response to his letter. 

It was true. He was afraid of being alone, of what would come after his marriage ended. Was living in this uncomfortable stalemate with Ginny preferable to the long and potentially lonely nights of the rest of his life? And though he knew Grey was right about his attraction to men not being the driving force behind his feelings, he still felt guilty about it, especially since the last few times they had been together, Harry had closed his eyes and imagined someone else in Ginny’s place. Then there were the kids. Yes, they were adults, but Albus, James, and Lily had been his priority since they were born. He loved them dearly, and they would likely side with their mother. Rightly so, but still, he selfishly wanted to maintain their good opinions of him. If he lost that, he lost everything. 

He almost wished he had a Time-Turner, so he could go back and stop himself from sending the damn letter. But now that it was out there, now that he had heard the advice that reinforced his own feelings, he knew he could not fail to act. 

Ginny deserved the truth.

***

Three months had passed since Draco’s response to the letter, and he had begun to doubt his earlier conviction regarding the identity of ‘William’. He had seen Potter only once since then, at a distance in Diagon Alley, and he had been with Ginny. The two of them had seemed friendly enough, walking with their arms around each other’s waists. For some reason, seeing them together like that had made Draco’s chest twinge. He blamed it on the spicy, rich curry he’d eaten for lunch, but he suspected he too was guilty of not being entirely honest with himself.

Things returned to normal, and Draco’s life fell back into the pattern he had created and, until recently, very much enjoyed. He wasn’t sure why it should be a little less fulfilling. After all, he still wrote his weekly column and received hundreds of letters, fan mail now mingling in with requests for advice. Pansy thought it was due to his retirement. She thought he was bored.

“You need a hobby, darling,” Pansy said, conjuring a mirror in which to fix her crimson lipstick. It was bright and early in the morning, and she had stopped by for breakfast on her way to a catch a Portkey to Paris, where she spent a good half of her time these days. “You’re far too glum for a Slytherin. It’s unbecoming.” 

“I’m not glum,” Draco said, catching a glimpse of his reflection in the floor to ceiling glass of the sitting room window. “Merely contemplative.” After all these years, he still cut a reasonably attractive figure. He had never grown the ubiquitous paunch that seemed to beset most wizards his age, and thanks to his meticulous skin care regimen, the wrinkles on his forehead and around his eyes were faint. His hair was thinning, however, in spite of his potions, and he’d recently cut it quite short, not wanting to be one of those men who held onto their youth with both hands, not realising they only aged themselves further with bad fashion choices.

“Maybe you’re having what the Muggles call a ‘mid-life crisis’.” Pansy snapped the tube of her lipstick shut, breaking Draco from his reverie. “It seems to be going around.” 

“Hmm?” Draco turned his attention back to his friend. “What do you mean?” 

“Oh, you haven’t heard? How unlike you not to be apprised of the latest gossip, darling. It was in the paper this very morning.” 

Draco’s heart skipped a beat. “What was?”

Her smile become positively devilish. “Oh. This should cheer you right up. The Potters are getting divorced.” 

Draco felt faint. He picked up his wand to Summon the _Prophet_ from the other room. Sure enough, there in bold headlines read _Potters Part in Amicable Divorce_. Under the font, a picture of the entire Potter-Weasley clan stood together, laughing. It looked to have been taken several years ago, when the youngest, Lily, was still in Hogwarts robes. 

“I can’t believe it,” he whispered. 

“Do. I immediately floo-called Blaise and he confirmed. It’s been the talk of the Ministry this past week. I do wonder if this will hurt Potter’s chances in next year’s election for Minister. The older generation is still dreadfully old-fashioned about that kind of thing.” 

“I didn’t know Potter was running,” said Draco. 

Pansy shrugged. “That’s what people are saying, at least.”

“By people, you mean Blaise.” Draco still didn’t know what Blaise did at the Ministry, and he’d long assumed his friend was an Unspeakable. Of course, Blaise never confirmed or denied. “So, are you two on again or off again?” 

“Off again. Why do you think I’m going to Paris?” She gathered her bag and rain coat, which was draped over a chintz chair. 

Draco rolled his eyes. His two closest friends had been shagging since after the war, but they had never settled down with each other or anyone else. He didn’t quite understand their relationship, but its dysfunctionality seemed to suit them both. 

“Speaking of, I must be off, darling, or I’ll miss my Portkey.” She leaned forward and planted a kiss on his cheek, then spelled away the stain. “Don’t spend all morning brooding over Potter.” 

“Brooding over Potter? Ridiculous.” He felt the blood rush to his face in spite of himself. 

“Well, he’s single now. You may have a chance, after all!” She flashed another smile and turned to grab a fistful of powder. 

Draco watched as Pansy disappeared through the Floo, his mind racing. He wondered if anyone had put two and two together and attributed the letter in his column to Potter, now that his separation was public news. If they did, the bisexuality would soon be news as well, and every wizard within a hundred miles with a liking for cock would be sniffing around Potter’s door. Which would probably be exactly what Potter wanted, if Draco’s own experience in getting divorced was predictive. Merlin, he had shagged his way across half of Europe once the ruse of his marriage was dissolved. 

HIs stomach twisted uncomfortably, which was ridiculous. It was none of his concern what Potter got up to or with who. 

One thing was for certain: Draco wasn’t going to be able to sit still and write that morning. He buttoned up his robe, smoothed back his hair, and Flooed immediately to the _Quibbler_ office. 

Luna Lovegood sat at her desk and looked up with a smile as Draco arrived. Her long blonde hair was streaked with white and cascaded over her shoulders in waves. With her reading specs perched at the tip of her nose, she could almost have passed for Sybil Trelawney, save for the fact her flower print dress was much too subtle for the former Hogwarts professor.

“Draco, how nice. I didn’t expect to see you today.” 

“Have you seen the _Prophet_?” Draco demanded, sending his copy her way. She blinked and pushed her glasses up her nose. 

“Why yes, I read it this morning.” 

“And?” Draco settled into the chair across from her. 

“It looks like your advice worked. Well done.” 

“Is that all? How can you be so blasé about it?” 

Luna’s smile grew slightly wistful. “I do hope everyone is all right. What is it that you want me to say, Draco? Harry is a grown man and can make his own decisions, if you’re feeling guilty about it. Your advice was spot on, as much as I love Harry and Ginny. 

“I’m not feeling guilty.” He was, a bit, but he would never admit it out loud. He stood by his advice, in any case. “I was just wondering if anyone was speculating he was the letter writer. Have you heard anything?” 

She shook her head. “No, but I imagine it’s only a matter of time before someone makes the connection.” 

“Indeed.” 

Draco shifted restlessly in his chair, crossing one leg over the other, and then switching the arrangement. He couldn’t seem to get comfortable. “Luna, no one knows I’m Grey, do they?” He could only imagine the headlines if word got out. _Draco Malfoy, Death Eater and Unrepentant Gay, Urged Our Savior to Abandon his Family._

Luna was silent for a moment. She folded her hands on the desk and front of her and looked at him squarely. “Only Neville.” 

Draco let out a loud sigh. “Longbottom is best mates with Weasley and Potter, Luna.” 

“He won’t say anything. I made him promise. And I’m sorry, but you shouldn’t send Owls to our house under your real name. It made him suspicious.” 

“He thought I was up to something.” 

She snickered. “No, actually. He thought you might be harassing me, you were writing so often. He wouldn’t believe we had a working relationship until I showed him proof.” 

“Merlin’s giddy aunt.” Draco couldn’t hold back his own laugh. He supposed he had made his own bed, and what would happen would happen. When once he would have lain awake for nights worrying about any number of possible scenarios, he was older and, he hoped, wiser now. Maybe he was just out of fucks to give. 

It turned out he didn’t need to wait long for the fallout. Two weeks later, a pap spied Harry at a gay Muggle club in west London, and the world went mad.

***

The flat above the chip shop on Market Street was small but cosy, and Harry felt he should be happier living there. He had at least managed to keep his address out of the papers with the help of his friends and several dislocation spells, along with a glamour he’d taken to wearing in public ever since the night at the Muggle club.

Harry stretched and stared up at the ceiling, the early morning sun breaking through the curtains to paint his new bedroom in waves of light. 

Godric, he had only been at the damn place for fifteen minutes, hadn’t even had the courage or opportunity to buy another man a drink before the camera had flashed in his face, the _Witch Weekly_ reporter peppering him with questions. It was just his luck to be thwarted right when he was about to get what he’d wanted for so long. 

Since then, he hadn’t been eager to try again, though he had plenty of time due to his leave of absence at the Ministry. He had been ‘encouraged’ to take a break to sort out his personal affairs after the _Witch Weekly_ exposé, which naturally connected his initial _Quibbler_ letter to his divorce. ‘It’s just until things settle down,’ Lawrence Buskin, the Deputy Minister, had told him apologetically, his face dark purple with embarrassment. “You know how people are.” 

Harry did. He wondered how he would ever show his face again and, worse, whether he even cared. He was almost fifty-one years old, and he had been living his whole life for other people: his wife, his children, his friends, and the wizarding world at large. Maybe it would be okay to be alone, like Grey had suggested. 

Still, he wasn’t used to it. He sat up in bed and swung his legs over the side, feeling aches in places that reminded him of life out in the field: a knot in his shoulder where he’d been hit with a bone-fusing hex, a pain in his knee where he’d twisted it dodging an AK. Some things not even St. Mungo’s could cure. 

In the kitchen, the cupboards were bare save for the groceries Lily had brought over the day before. He smiled as he grabbed the box of English Breakfast, thinking of his daughter. She had surprised him by being the most understanding of all of his children. Albus was coming around, but James was still furious with him. 

As he brewed his tea, he thought about what he should do with the day. He needed to get out. The silent flat left him with far too much time to think about the separation from Ginny and the impending meeting with their wizarding lawyers. Though the initial conversations had gone much more smoothly than Harry had expected, the division of assets would be painful reminders of happy days. Harry had told Ginny to just take the lot of it, but she had refused, of course. 

“I don’t want all of your money, Harry,” she’d said, her eyes large but dry. “You don’t have to be a martyr for me.” 

“But Gin—”

“This has been a long time coming. I just . . . I don’t want us to ever hate each other.” 

That had been enough to set Harry off. He’d cried, holding her, perhaps for the last time. “I could never hate you, Gin. I’ll always love you.” 

She hadn’t replied, which was fair.

Harry sat down to his breakfast and remembered the ticket to the Wasps/Arrows match that Scorpius had sent over the previous week. It had been a while since Harry saw Al’s old school chum play. Whatever Harry thought of Malfoy, his son was a talented Seeker, and seeing him fly for the Wasps would be just the diversion he needed. 

Harry wondered if Malfoy would be at the game. It was highly likely, and it might be nice to speak to someone who never had high expectations of him to begin with. In fact, he hadn’t seen Malfoy around for months, which was unusual. They had a habit of bumping into each other here and there on at least a weekly basis, and Harry almost missed their snarking interactions. Perhaps, Harry thought, he could even speak to Malfoy about his divorce. Malfoy had gone through one himself, after all, and his scandal had been almost as large as Harry’s. All of Harry’s other friends were still happy together: Ron and Hermione, Neville and Luna, Seamus and Dean. It wasn’t that they didn’t sympathise; they just couldn’t possibly understand what it was like to start your life over after thirty years of marriage.

_And Malfoy was gay,_ another part of Harry’s brain reminded him. Maybe they had more in common than Harry had initially thought.

Feeling strangely hopeful, Harry pushed himself up from the table and hurried to get ready.

The day was cool, clear, and bright with hardly any wind: an unusually perfect day for Quidditch, seeing that it was only mid-March. The stands on Wimbourne Green were packed to the gills with fans wearing black and yellow, and many of them were already buzzing loudly to intimidate the Arrows, their long-time rival. Harry picked his way towards his seat carrying two lagers. With the glamour he’d used to lengthen and lighten his hair and change the shape of his face, of course removing his telltale scar, he didn’t get looks from anyone save for a passing annoyed glance when he stepped on someone’s robes accidentally. 

His seat was at the end of the pitch near the Wasps goal, high enough for a good view but not so high as to be dizzying. And there, next to his vacant spot, was Draco Malfoy, looking quite dapper in a grey Muggle sweater with a Wasps scarf wrapped around his neck. 

Harry settled into his chair, managing not to spill his beer as he did so. He chanced a sideways glance at Malfoy, who was staring straight ahead, his features hard to read.

“Hello,” said Harry.

Malfoy nodded. “Potter.” 

“Shh!” Harry leaned closer. “How did you know it was me?” He did a quick check to ensure his glamour was holding.

“I could see you coming from a league away in that atrocious jumper.” 

Harry looked down and frowned at his jumper, which he’d thought was quite smart. It was red, though, and he knew Malfoy preferred green. 

“Gryffindors,” Malfoy muttered. “They never learn.” 

“Having nightmares about losing the House Cup again? That was decades ago, or are you still in mourning?” 

Malfoy sniffed. “Scorpius told me he’d invited you, if you must know.” 

“I’m surprised to see you here, then, if you knew you’d have to spend the match next to me.” Harry felt the corners of his mouth try to tug up. This was familiar, the push and pull between them, and he found himself relaxing into the seat.

“Believe me, I was strongly tempted to save myself the trial. Do you really need two lagers? Trying to drown your sorrows?” Malfoy’s arm brushed against his, and Harry realised they were sitting quite close.

Harry didn’t take the bait this time. “No, actually. I brought one for you. I thought you might be here.” He handed it over, and Malfoy gave the cold mug of beer in his hand a baffled look. “Drink up, Malfoy, it’s going to be quite a game.”

“Oh. Erm. Thank you.” 

“My pleasure.”

Malfoy opened and closed his mouth like a fish. It was the first time Harry had ever seen Malfoy speechless, and he felt rather smug about it. 

The game began with a boisterous cheer from the crowd as the Snitch was released and the Wasps’ Chasers took off with the Quaffle towards the Arrows’ goal, their Beaters in swift pursuit. The Wasps were known for their strong offence and had only lost twice during the season, though they owed most of their success to Scorpius who, in the three years since he’d been on the team, had developed into a world-class player. Harry held his breath as Scorpius feinted right, narrowly avoiding a Bludger as he tailed the other team’s Seeker. He was fast and agile: a true pleasure to watch. Harry watched as Malfoy tracked his son, the pride clear on his face.

“Scorp is looking good out there,” said Harry, taking a sip of beer.

“Of course he is,” said Malfoy, who seemed to finally remember the mug in his hand. “He’s my son after all.” Harry watched with amusement as Malfoy tentatively sipped the lager, his mouth forming a half-grimace at the taste. He had never seen Malfoy drink a beer in their entire lives; at fundraisers and galas he always chose Firewhiskey or champagne. Now, however, he seemed determined to be polite. Harry wondered why. 

“You don’t have to drink it if you don’t want it, Malfoy.” 

“It’s not so bad,” Malfoy said with a forced smile. Their attention was drawn back to the match briefly as the Arrows scored. “Blast,” said Malfoy, his shoulders tightening. 

“Come on, Scorp,” Harry added, though both Seekers were so high in the air, they were barely visible. 

““So . . .” Malfoy said after a beat. “How are you?” 

Harry nearly sprayed beer through his nose. “Are you seriously asking me that?” 

Malfoy’s face flushed, as he looked at Harry and then quickly away. “It’s only that your son has expressed his concern about your well-being. I am rather fond of the boy.” 

Harry startled. “Albus has been to the Manor with Scorpius?” He had known the two were school chums, but he hadn’t heard much from Scorp in recent years, and he’d assumed they had grown apart. 

“Quite a few times, recently,” said Malfoy, with just a hint of something in his voice. Harry couldn’t determine precisely what it was.

“Oh. Well, he needn’t worry about me. I’m fine.” Maybe he gave himself away by being a little too gruff, but it was disconcerting to think of Malfoy, Albus and Scorpius discussing his private affairs. “It’s none of your business, anyway.” A bit of colour drained from Malfoy’s face, and Harry immediately regretted his harsh tone. 

Malfoy nodded, surprising Harry by acquiescing. “Quite right. It is none of my business. Forget it.” 

“Sorry. It was nice of you to ask. I’m just a little tired of talking about it, and thinking about it, and having everyone walk on eggshells around me. I’m doing well, all things considered.” 

Before Malfoy could reply, a cheer roared through the crowd followed by a growing buzz as the Wasps scored two consecutive goals and one of the Arrows’ beaters was nearly knocked off his broom by a Bludger. Harry inhaled sharply. He wanted the Wasps to win, of course, but he knew how it felt to be hit by one of those blasted things.

Scorpius zipped past the stand right in front of them, and Malfoy stood and let out a startling whoop, unconsciously bracing himself with a hand on Harry’s shoulder. Harry watched his face light up with pleasure, and something tugged deep inside of Harry’s belly. 

There had always been something attractive about Malfoy, though Harry had once been loath to admit it, but as he’d aged and mellowed, his sharp edges had softened. He’d grown into his features, and Harry didn’t mind his receding hairline. The defined widow’s peak suited him, especially now that he’d cropped his hair. 

When Scorp was off again, Malfoy sat back down and the noise of the crowd dulled. “I understand how you must feel. You’ve been in the papers every day since the announcement.” 

“Don’t remind me.” 

“It was very like that for me, when Astoria and I separated,” Malfoy continued, leaning close so his voice was warm in Harry’s ear. “But don’t worry, it won’t last forever. They will soon tire of tracking your every move and will settle for tracking your every other move, as usual.” 

Harry allowed himself to smile. “Merlin, I hope you’re right.” 

“But, if I may, a word of advice?” 

“What?” 

Another cheer shook the stadium, and Malfoy leaned close again so he could be heard. “If you’re going to try to pull at a club, whether Muggle or Wizarding, for Salazar’s sake use a better glamour than this. You look like a broom salesman.” 

Harry turned his head to whisper back, almost brushing Malfoy’s cheek with his nose. “What would you suggest?” 

“A little less . . . hair,” said Malfoy. “And please not so light. Your own colour suits you much better. You don’t need to try too hard. It’s the scar and glasses people look for. Get rid of those and use a more modest charm.” 

Harry nodded, swallowing the last of his beer to quell the sudden butterflies. “So you’re saying you find my usual looks attractive?” 

“That’s not what I said, Potter, though if you must know . . .” Malfoy pursed his lips, which were really very close, and pleasing despite their thinness. He looked like he was going to say something tart, but then Scorpius caught the Snitch. 

The Wasps fans went wild, buzzing and shouting and waving their wings. Harry was on his feet in an instant with Malfoy at his side. 

“Well done, Scorp!” Harry cried. “Well done!” 

“Mal-foy, Mal-foy, Mal-foy!” The chant rose and carried on the breeze as Scorpius did his victory lap and then joined his teammates in celebration on the ground. “Mal-foy!” 

The raw emotion on Malfoy’s face made Harry’s heart thud, or perhaps it was the intoxicating effect of the crowd gone wild. Harry saw the mix of pride and disbelief in Malfoy’s shining eyes, as though he couldn’t comprehend his family name being celebrated in such a public display. Thirty years ago, Harry would never have imagined this moment. He felt sure the same was true for Malfoy. 

Not long after, the fans started to depart, and Harry and Malfoy walked together towards the stadium exit, talking about the game in an unusually companionable way. Harry found himself disappointed to arrive at the apparition point so soon. He had enjoyed himself, and he didn’t relish the thought of heading back to his empty flat alone. But, he supposed, it was something he had to get used to. 

“Wait, Malfoy.” Harry caught his arm as he turned to depart. Malfoy’s jumper was soft under his hand, his skin warm. “Do you want to do this again sometime? Maybe get a drink?” 

Malfoy turned, eyes widening. “That would be fine.” 

“All right,” said Harry as he let him go. “I’ll Owl you.” Before Malfoy could respond, Harry unholstered his wand and was gone. The last thing he saw was Malfoy’s small, slightly confused smile.

***

_Dear M. Grey,_

_One of my greatest regrets is not telling my best friend, who is now happily married to another wizard, that I have been in love with her for years. I feel she has the right to know the truth, and finally telling her will clear the air, help me move on and find someone else. My sister, who I confided in recently, tells me that I should just let it go. Which of us is right?_

_-Lovesick at Heart_

_Dear Lovesick,_

_Your sister is right, and you are deluded if you think telling your ‘friend’ about your feelings will solve anything. I suggest you take a look in the mirror (not the Mirror of Erised, mind) and ask yourself why you want to confess; if you’re truthful, you’ll discover you selfishly hope your best friend will leave her husband for a romp with you. She’s happy; you’re a prat. Move on and shut up._

_-M. Grey_

Draco stared at what he’d written, wondering if it was too snarky even for him. He closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose. It had been nearly a week since the Quidditch match with Potter, and he had yet to receive a visit from Potter’s owl.

Bloody Potter and his stupid suggestion. Perhaps he had just made it politely, not really intending Draco to take it to heart—but there had been a moment, Draco surely hadn’t imagined it, where he thought Potter might even be considering kissing him. Even thinking the thought now seemed absurd. He and Potter could never . . . It would never—some things were just impossible. 

And so he waited and tried not to wait, all the while cursing Pansy and her pre-trip admonition not to brood. 

On the ninth day, not that he was counting, a small tawny owl with large orange eyes pecked on his sill as he struggled through his weekly pile of mail. It was an unfamiliar bird, and Draco’s hands trembled as he unfolded the parchment. 

_Malfoy,_ it read. _Thanks for keeping me company at the match the other day. I was serious when I said I’d like to do it again. Leaky tomorrow at eight? I promise I won’t wear a glamour. -H.P._

After reading the note over and over at least fifteen times, Draco was still unable to decipher the subtext. Was the last line meant as flirtation or a simple reference to their previous conversation? Did Potter truly want to spend time with Draco himself or would any warm body do to distract him from his loneliness? Was this a date or two old enemies-now-acquaintances meeting for a casual drink? He cursed himself and crumpled the note, feeling as panicked as a bloody teenager before grabbing his quill and writing back a quick affirmative reply. 

The following evening he apparated to the side of the Leaky just outside on the early side of eight, intending to establish himself at a table that showed him to his best advantage. However, when he opened the door, Potter was already there, sitting in a corner booth on the far side of the room, which was packed. He smiled and waved Draco over with one hand, the other casually stretched across the back of his chair. 

A few curious glances followed him as he crossed the room, but if Potter wasn’t concerned with the attention, Draco wasn’t going to be either. He ordered his usual at the bar and then made his way, as unhurriedly as possible, towards Potter. It wouldn’t do to seem too eager.

“Malfoy,” said Potter as Draco took his seat. “I didn’t know if you’d show up.”

“I said I would. It’s rude to break one’s word when making social arrangements.” 

Harry snorted and reached for the unopened packet of crisps on the table. “Social arrangements.” 

Draco took a sip of his single malt, enjoying the heady caramel aroma. “I must confess I was surprised you asked at all. Why did you, by the way?” 

Harry gave him a smirk, and there was a twinkle of mischief in his eyes. “You know, I’ve asked myself that same thing about twenty times, and I haven’t come up with a good answer yet.” 

“Charmed, I’m sure,” said Draco, scowling a little. “You have a peculiar way of making one feel welcome.” 

Harry waved him off. “Oh, don’t be like that. You know as well as I we’ve never been the best of friends.” 

“No, I don’t suppose we have.”

 

“I enjoyed talking to you the other day, if you want to know the truth. It was refreshing.” 

“Oh? How so?” Draco leaned forward, intrigued. 

“Everyone is so concerned, so worried about saying the wrong thing, ever since Ginny and I split and it came out that I was . . . bisexual.” It looked like he had to force himself to say the word. “You just treated me like you always have.” 

“With utter contempt?” 

Harry rolled his eyes and popped a crisp into his mouth. “Don’t be a wanker.” 

Draco fingered the glass in his hands, watching the ice slide back and forth. Genuine Potter was completely disarming, and he had no recourse but to fall back into old patterns of snark and insult. He supposed he should attempt to break free. “Well, I didn’t have a terrible time, either. And for the record, I think it’s appalling to be treated differently merely because of your sexuality. I’ve experienced quite enough of that sort of behavior to know it’s offensive.” 

“Of course,” said Potter softly. “Was it hard for you, coming out?” 

“In some respects,” said Draco, remembering the reaction of his parents, his father’s in particular. “In others, it was quite liberating.” He raised an eyebrow, and Potter blushed. It made him look years younger. 

“Oh, yes, well I haven’t had much luck on that front.” 

“What’s this? Because of the club debacle? You can’t tell me the great Harry Potter can’t find someone to shag. You must have men beating down your door.”

“Not really,” said Harry. “Maybe I’m just too old.” 

“Bollocks. You’re barely middle-aged, and you’ve kept yourself in shape. Plus, you’re famous and rich. Anyone would be lucky to have you. Some young Auror with a hero-worshipping complex, perhaps?” Draco bit his tongue before he went any further. If he wasn’t careful, Potter would be out the door rather than waste a moment more with him.

“I don’t much go for that,” said Harry with a frown. “I don’t think I want someone younger. My kids would kill me, for one.” 

“Ah,” said Draco. “Well, that’s true. It could make things rather awkward.” 

“You sound like you’re experienced on that front. Are you into younger men?” Harry leaned forward, his voice hushed. Draco couldn’t blame him. He wouldn’t be surprised if there was an extendable ear or two in the near vicinity. 

The question caught Draco off-guard, mainly because for all his liberated talk, he hadn’t dated much recently. He hadn’t the time or the inclination to put in the effort necessary to meet someone new, and it had been years since he’d found fulfillment letting off steam with anonymous men in clubs. “Not especially,” Draco hedged. 

“Well, I’m not even sure what I want, or what to do. This is all new to me. I’ve never . . .” Harry hesitated, and in that moment Draco just _knew._

“Potter. Have you ever slept with anyone other than Ginerva Weasley?” 

“Keep your damn voice down,” Harry gritted through his teeth. Draco’s insides were doing all sorts of wild things, but he tried to keep his expression neutral. He possibly failed. Harry sighed. “We’ve been together since we were seventeen. It’s pathetic. I know.” 

“It’s so far from pathetic I can’t begin to describe it,” said Draco before he could stop himself. “In fact, I think it’s sexy.” 

“You do?” Harry’s eyes widened. 

“You’re a committed, honourable man, Potter. Those are attractive qualities to any impartial observer.” 

“Hmm. You didn’t say that, you said I.” Harry was certainly teasing now. His leg brushed Draco’s under the table. “You find me sexy,” he said in sing-song.

Now it was Draco’s turn to blush. He did, down to the roots of his hair, he was sure. He took a large gulp of whisky to settle his nerves. “Always so literal, you Gryffindors.” 

“Well. I don’t suppose any of it matters, anyway. My only choice is to shag a Muggle. There’s probably a rumor circulating right now about us being here together. I’ll never find another wizard who will want me for me with all of the Harry Potter baggage.” 

Draco kept his eyes fixed firmly on his glass. “You might.” Slowly, imperceptibly to anyone watching, he slid his leg against Potter’s with more intent. When he looked up, Harry was staring at him, unblinking, his pupils blown wide. 

“Are you suggesting what I think you are?” Harry asked. 

“That depends. Are you interested?” 

Harry nodded, the hunger in his eyes unmistakable. “Very much.” His thigh was warm, the muscles hard, and Draco felt faint. 

“All right then. Now?” Harry nodded again, licking his lips. “Follow me in ten minutes. I’ll leave the wards open for you. I trust you still remember the coordinates to the Manor?” Not waiting for an answer, Draco set down his empty glass, disentangled their legs, and stood. He sauntered out of the bar, knowing full well Potter’s eyes were on his arse. He affected a lazy smile at several people he knew, but all the while his heart hammered in his chest as though it had been replaced with a Cornish Pixie.

He sagged against the door after he arrived back at the Manor, trying to get his bearings. Harry Potter, who had never been with a man before, had never even been with another person other than his wife, was coming for a shag. And by Merlin’s saggy tits, Draco was going to make sure it was good.

Moxie, one of the two house elves Draco still employed, appeared in a flash. “Master Draco is back early. Is Master wanting something to eat or drink?” 

“No, Moxie, you can go. And don’t worry about coming back until tomorrow afternoon. Let Moody know as well.” 

“Yes, Master Draco.” She nodded her head, ears flopping, and disappeared with a pop. Perhaps Draco was being overly optimistic about the time frame, but an ounce of prevention and all that.

Not even a minute later, there was a knock at the door. Draco opened it, and Potter stood outside the threshold looking quite intense, his green eyes almost black.

“I told you to wait ten minutes,” said Draco, but before he could launch into a comment about bloody impatient Gryffindors, Potter’s lips were against his, kissing him as Potter crowded him back into the house. Potter kicked the door shut with one foot, his arms around Draco as their mouths opened and their tongues found each other for the first time. An electric shock ran up and down Draco’s spine. He hadn’t been prepared for Potter to be so good at kissing, which was ridiculous, he realised, as Potter held his chin and tilted his head for a better angle, modulating the pace and intensity in a way that made Draco’s toes curl. His mouth was warm, and he tasted sweet and fresh, like he’d just done a tooth cleansing charm. 

They kissed in the entrance hall, clutching at each other like they were sixteen again and trying to get off in an alcove at Hogwarts. Draco gasped when his erection brushed against Harry’s, his arousal spiking. Harry’s eyes flashed open at the contact. 

“Wow,” he said. “That’s . . .” He reached down to touch, and the tentative contact of his hand was enough to make Draco’s prick ache. He couldn’t help himself from leaning into it and looking down to watch.

“Potter, as lovely as this is, maybe we should move beyond the front door?”

That seemed to snap Harry out of his trance. He glanced around. “Wait, Scorp isn’t here, is he?” 

“No. He has a flat in town, and I sent the elves away. I’m alone.” 

He hadn’t intended it to be an existential statement, but Harry seemed to take it as one. He brushed a thumb against Draco’s lower lip, his expression suddenly thoughtful and all too knowing. Draco avoided his gaze. He shouldn’t be making doe-eyes at Potter; this was a fuck, a way to release some tension, and he would be deluding himself to think of it in any other light. 

“Your bedroom?” Harry asked. 

Draco nodded. “Hold on.” 

They Apparated to Draco’s suite, which had been his mother’s until her death three years before. Draco had redecorated the rooms to his taste, getting rid of the floral throw pillows and wallpaper his mother had favored and adding new, Muggle-inspired fixtures in the bathroom. His bed was a large four-poster and covered with a Slytherin green duvet, of course. Harry just smiled as he took it in, still holding Draco’s hand. 

“It’s nice,” said Harry, his eyes back on Draco. “Suits you.” 

Draco tugged him towards the bed. 

They tumbled still-dressed onto the feathery down, rolling as they kissed. Draco allowed Harry to set the pace, wanting to be sure he was comfortable with everything they were doing. He had been with newly out men before, and some reacted unpredictably when actually faced with another man’s body for the first time. He needn’t have worried. Harry wasn’t skittish at all: he was ravenous, strong and sure as he responded to Draco’s touches in kind. 

Soon, their clothes had been spelled away and Harry was on top of him, their pricks hard and leaking as they slid together. The friction lit a fire in Draco’s belly, and he relished the feel of Harry’s strong shoulders under his hands, the way his hard body moved against Draco’s. His chest was pleasingly hairy, but in a well-groomed way, and the trail led down to a nest of thick black curls only lightly peppered with grey. Of course Potter’s cock was magnificent. It was a warm, heavy weight in Draco’s hand as he gave it an experimental stroke, the head round and fat with a tight foreskin, just the type Draco could spend hours sucking. He hoped he would get a chance to do that, to do everything. But If this was only going to happen once, Draco wanted to remember every moment. 

Harry apparently loved kissing, which Draco appreciated. He felt utterly taken over as Harry plundered his mouth, groaning into it as they built a rhythm. To ease the way, Draco conjured some lube and reached between them to slather their cocks, getting them both slick. It was messy and urgent and completely went against Draco’s plan to take Harry apart slowly; instead, Harry was taking him apart and he was too far gone to care much about the reversal. He broke their kiss to offer Harry his throat, gripping his arse to urge him on. 

“Damn, Malfoy,” Harry growled, tickling Draco’s ear with his breath. “You’re so bloody hot.” From the strain in his voice, Draco could tell he was close. His own prick was near to bursting. He let out what he hoped was not a whimper, but probably was, if the feral look on Harry’s face was any evidence. 

It all peaked, and they came together, cocks spurting and coating each other in warm, slippery come. Draco shook from his toes to the top of his head as he pulsed and ground against Harry’s belly to wring out the last of his orgasm, breathing as though he’d just flown a race. When Harry’s mouth found his again, the kiss was a softer, almost lazy meeting of lips. It was strangely romantic in a way that Draco wasn’t used to, at least from a casual lover. He found he didn’t mind it, however, and he was content to let Harry shift and settle against him until their pricks became too sensitive, and Harry rolled away. 

Afterwards, they lay side-by-side staring up at the ceiling, boneless and clean due to Draco’s fastidious charm. Harry was silent, too silent, and Draco braced himself for the inevitable. 

The inevitable, however, didn’t come. Instead, Harry braced his head on his arm and looked at Draco, running a hand up and down his chest. The scarring was faint now, hardly noticeable except in close quarters. Harry’s palm was warm as it slowly caressed his skin. 

“Did I ever tell you I was sorry?” 

“Don’t be maudlin, Potter, not after a great shag. I don’t need any apologies.” 

“Great, was I?” Harry smirked. 

“You were passable.” 

“Hmph. That’s definitely not what you said.” 

Draco watched as Potter moved his head to kiss the places where his hand had just been, his lips feather-soft. Draco’s skin pebbled and his spent cock twitched feebly. His heart clenched in his chest. 

“You’re absurd,” he said, hoping his voice wasn’t too throaty. 

“Mmm?” Harry moved lower, nosing Draco’s prick and kissing his thighs. “What was that?” 

“Merlin, Potter. Give an old man a few minutes.” Draco threaded his fingers through Harry’s sweaty hair. It was half-grey, especially at the temples, but as thick as it had ever been. Draco didn’t have it in him to be jealous. He scratched at Harry’s scalp and was rewarded with a groan of pleasure. 

“You’re not old, Malfoy.” Harry grinned up at him and ran the tip of his tongue along Draco’s sensitive hip. Draco shivered. 

“You’re always telling me that you’re old, and we’re the same age, ergo . . .” Draco trailed off, breath hitching as Harry’s bold tongue licked a stripe down his cock, which had begun to show signs of interest. 

“See?” Harry looked proud and more than a little curious. He licked again, this time with more intent, and Draco’s thighs spread of their own accord, his bollocks tingling. 

“You’re incorrigible,” Draco said. 

Harry smiled. “Maybe so.” 

He was as overconfident as he’d ever been at school, but Draco couldn’t find it in himself to mind, especially not when Harry’s soft, plush mouth pressed kisses to the sensitive skin on the inside of Draco’s thighs.

“You can’t tell me you’ve never done this before,” Draco groaned.

“Some of us are just naturally talented. Just wait until next time.” 

“You’re assuming there’ll be a next time.” 

“Don’t even try to pretend, Malfoy. You know there will be.” 

Later still, Draco watched Harry sleep. He couldn’t help himself. There were fine lines around the corners of his eyes and mouth that spoke of years of laughter, and a crease between his eyes that showed years of strain. Draco longed to smooth out the lines with his thumb. He hoped Harry had been mostly happy. 

Draco shifted restlessly, too hot when he moved close to Harry and then too cold when he moved further away. He wasn’t used to having someone in his bed. It was nice, but also uncomfortable. 

He knew he should tell Harry about the letter. It would get out soon enough, he was sure, and then Harry would be angry and confused. Why hadn’t Draco told him yet? He didn’t truly believe it was his advice that had spurred Harry to act on his separation. But what if it had been? Would Harry blame him? 

He would tell Harry in the morning, Draco assured himself as his eyes finally grew heavy. He sank into a deep sleep.

In the morning, however, Harry was gone.

***

Harry immediately regretted leaving.

He had woken feeling more comfortable and sated than he had in months in a soft bed that he understood vaguely wasn’t his own. Stretching, he reached out. His hand brushed against a warm, naked body. 

_Draco_. He looked exhausted even as he slept, his mouth partly open and dark circles under his eyes, as though he’d been up half the night. They had been up half the night. 

It came back to Harry in a flash so intense—the feel of Draco’s skin, their heated kisses, the shocking taste of his come. Being with Draco was nothing like being with Ginny, but the evening had certainly proven beyond a shadow of a doubt that Harry liked men too. He wondered if it had been especially good because it was with Draco and not some random bloke in the loos. Harry hadn’t felt that intense passion, that raw need, since his earliest days with Ginny. 

He watched Draco sleep, his eyelashes fluttering as he dreamed. He looked vulnerable in the early morning light, his long, lithe body stretched out like a cat. Something twisted deep in Harry’s gut and welled in his throat, an emotion he couldn’t name. He had panicked, dressed, and let himself out without making a sound. 

Now, puttering around back in his flat, Harry felt guilty. Draco would be angry and hurt, Harry was sure, but would pretend like he didn’t care. He wouldn’t likely want to repeat the experience. 

Did Harry want to repeat the experience? The answer that came from his body before he had the chance to think was a deep, resounding yes. His mind, however, was a little less certain. He had never done casual sex before, and he wasn’t sure what Draco wanted. 

“Of course, you could ask,” Harry told himself wryly. He had begun to have little conversations with himself out loud. Albus and Lily were on their way over; if he didn’t shut up, they would probably think he had gone round the twist. 

Just then, the Floo chimed and out stepped his daughter, wearing casual Muggle clothes. The jeans were tight—too tight for Harry’s liking—but he’d learned to keep his mouth shut where his children’s fashion choices were concerned. Al had recently had a haircut, and it was very short. Harry liked it, but it made him seem very grown up, which made Harry, in turn, feel old.

“Hey Dad,” said Lily, giving him a kiss on the cheek. 

“Dad,” said Al, a little more gruffly. Harry gave them both hugs, slightly stung when Al pulled away quickly. 

“How are you?” Lily asked, fussing with his collar. She had inherited the attentiveness of her mother along with her hair colour. 

Harry’s heart twisted a bit as he considered how much she looked like Ginny at that age. “Just fine.” 

She cocked her head. “You look . . . really good, actually.” She sounded surprised. Harry was, too, for his part. He wondered if it was some sort of sex afterglow, and then really, really hoped his kids didn’t notice his blush. “Did you dye your hair or something? You look younger.”

“No idea. So, what’ve you been up to?” he asked to deflect their attention. Al made them tea and they all sat on pillows on the floor—Harry had yet to buy a sofa—and chatted about the week. He was grateful for the distraction, and the fact he didn’t have to talk much, especially as Lily launched into a description of her latest courses at the Magical Creature Veterinary Academy, where she was enrolled. Al was a little more reticent about how he’d been spending his time, though Harry knew he was busy at the Ministry having just completed Auror Training. Of course, that made Harry remember what Draco had told him about Scorpius.

“I ran into Malfoy the other day, at one of Scorp’s games. He sent me a ticket.” 

“Oh,” said Al. “That’s nice.” 

“Malfoy said you’d been over at the Manor with Scorp, quite a bit recently.” Harry watched as his son struggled with a sip of tea, his face turning red as he exchanged a glance with Lily, and suddenly Harry knew. He couldn’t believe he hadn’t put two and two together before. “Is there something you want to tell me?” 

Lily nodded. “Tell him, Al.” 

“Um, yeah, actually.” Al set his mug down in the diamond-shaped floor space between his bent legs. “Scorp and I . . . well, we’re seeing each other. Dating. I’m gay, Dad.” 

Harry mustered his most genuine smile. His heart swelled as his son looked at him nervously, as though Harry would be angry or disappointed. “I think that’s wonderful. Thank you for telling me.” 

Al exhaled a long sigh, and Lily reached out to touch his knee in a gesture of sisterly affection. “So you don’t mind that it’s . . . that Scorp’s a Malfoy? Mom wasn’t exactly pleased.” 

Harry nearly spit out his tea. But of course Al would consider their families antagonists. He had no reason to think otherwise. He wondered what Al would think if he knew how Harry had spent the previous night. “I haven’t hated Draco Malfoy for a long time, and you know I’ve always liked Scorp. I think it makes sense. You were so close at school.” 

Al grinned. “Thanks, Dad. I figured you wouldn’t care about the gay thing, but . . . I didn’t know for sure.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “Apparently you didn’t read last month’s _Witch Weekly._ ” 

That earned a laugh, and the tension building in the room dissipated instantly. Now that the dam was broken, Al was like a different person, his excitement over his new relationship clear by the way he talked about Scorpius, his eyes lightening and his hand gestures becoming more animated. Harry wondered how much of Al’s moodiness the previous few months could be attributed to his anxiety over his parent’s reaction—not that he was dating a man, but that he was dating a Malfoy. It was almost too ironic.

The children left an hour later, not without Harry asking them to give love to James, who had yet to stop by. It hurt if he thought too much about it, but Ginny and James had always been extremely close. He just hoped that with time and patience, his oldest son would come around.

Once they were gone, Harry made his decision. He grabbed a fresh parchment and his quill.

_Malfoy,_

_Sorry I left like that. I had to clear my head, but I don’t regret last night. I hope we can see each other again soon._

_P.S. Our sons are shagging. You knew, didn’t you?_

_-H.P._

He had to wait until the following day for Draco’s reply.

_Potter,_

_Of course I knew they were shagging. Scorpius tells me everything. Don’t be cross. Albus was worried you hated me too much to ever accept the match._

_I do hate you, Potter. I’m not accustomed to men leaving my bed in the night. But I could be persuaded to see you again. You were a decent shag._

_-D.M._

Harry smirked to himself as he read the note. Malfoy had been completely spent, and Harry knew he’d been far better than decent. At least he hoped. 

_Malfoy,_

_You flatter me. My Floo is open whenever you’d like to drop by._  
;  
-H.P. 

He didn’t receive a reply but, a few days later, he did receive a visit from Malfoy, who alerted his wards at around nine o’clock on a Saturday evening. Harry stood up from his new leather armchair in surprise. He had begun to think his open invitation fell on deaf ears.

Malfoy stepped through the Floo and performed a cursory cleansing spell on himself to remove the worst of the powder. He was carrying a bottle of wine with a French label that looked very old, which meant it was probably very good. 

“Hi,” said Harry. He had been reading and nearly ready to fall asleep moments before, but now his whole body was on alert, his prick stirring with the beginnings of desire. Malfoy looked like he’d recently showered, and as he came closer Harry could smell his sandalwood soap. 

“A housewarming gift.” Malfoy held it out. “Château Mouton Rothschild, 1903.” 

“That sounds rare.” Harry took the bottle and turned it round, noting the faded writing. “Are you sure you want to part with it?”

Malfoy gestured impatiently. “The Malfoy cellars are bursting at the seams, Potter. You’d be doing me a favour to take it off my hands.” 

Setting the bottle down on the sideboard, Harry smiled to himself. “Anything I can do to help. Thank you.” He turned back to Malfoy, who was biting his bottom lip as though nervous. “Is that the only reason you dropped by? Sorry, I’m not dressed for company.” He gestured at his worn jogging bottoms and Chudley Cannons t-shirt, which was nearly as ancient as the wine. 

He wasn’t sure which of them moved first, but the next thing he knew they were kissing, Malfoy’s mouth moving urgently against his own. Malfoy tasted good, and he was just as talented with his tongue as Harry remembered. They fumbled with clothing as the kiss went on, both of them eager to get at the skin underneath. Harry raked his hands up and down Malfoy’s smooth back underneath his shirt, drawing him in closer so their bodies could press together. His desire was like lightning: sudden and strong, a force that wouldn’t be denied. His cock was hard and straining against the thin fabric of his bottoms.

“I didn’t know if you would come,” said Harry. 

“I didn’t either,” said Malfoy, panting against his mouth. 

“Liar.” 

Malfoy ignored him. “You do have a bed in this hovel, don’t you?” 

Harry rolled his eyes and took Malfoy’s hand. “This way.” 

His room was still spartan, the only decoration a picture of his kids on the dresser. He was grateful he’d gotten a new bed, however, which was large, soft and definitely up to Malfoy standards if the price tag had been any indication. Harry wasn’t used to such personal extravagances but had bought it on a hopeful whim earlier in the week. 

“Will this do?” 

Malfoy pushed him back onto the soft coverlet, his eyes dark. If Harry had been the aggressor during their initial encounter, tonight it was all Malfoy, and Harry was happy to let him take the lead. He lay back as Malfoy spelled off their clothes and kneeled between Harry’s spread legs. Malfoy’s prick was leaking and hard, a pretty pink colour that made Harry think of a strawberry lolly. With a flush, he remembered his eager attempts to suck it that night at Malfoy’s, and he hoped he had made up for his lack of finesse with enthusiasm. He was certainly ready to try again. 

It seemed Malfoy had other ideas, however. With a graceful movement, he leaned down and braced himself with one arm on the bed, the other circling the base of Harry’s hard prick. Harry groaned, watching as Malfoy lowered his head and took it into his mouth. He flicked his tongue around the glans, sending little shockwaves through Harry, and then he pressed down into the slit, lapping up the moisture beading there. Harry hissed and pushed himself up on his elbows for a better view. 

Malfoy’s mouth looked amazing stretched wide to take him in. His eyes were closed, face flushed with pleasure as though he enjoyed sucking Harry as much as Harry enjoyed being sucked. Harry groaned, lifting his hips to get deeper, and Malfoy responded with an eye-fluttering sigh. 

He certainly knew his way around a cock. Harry’s chest twinged with something like jealousy as he imagined the other men Malfoy had been with, might still be with, but just as quickly he pushed the thought away. Tonight, Malfoy was his and his alone. 

As if sensing his thoughts, Malfoy opened his eyes and watched Harry watch him. His mouth was hot and wet, and Harry’s cock looked obscene as it slid in and out. He was so hard it hurt, and Malfoy hummed around him, using his hand to squeeze and roll Harry’s bollocks in just the way he liked. He was getting close. 

“Yeah,” he said. “Just like that. Keep sucking me.” 

Malfoy took him deep, and Harry’s eyes widened as he felt the press of a wet fingertip behind his balls. Instinctively, he widened his legs further, and Malfoy took it as an invitation. His finger slipped inside, working gently at first and then more vigorously when Harry groaned with pleasure.

As enthusiastic as their sex life had been, at least at the beginning of their marriage, Ginny had never been keen on arse play. Harry hadn’t blamed her, of course, but he had wanted it, had used his own hands to spread himself wide as he wanked when he was alone. Now, having Malfoy’s fingers in him, working him open as his mouth sucked, Harry was beyond rational thought. It felt so good to have something inside him, to have his cock encased in slippery heat. He felt his bollocks tighten up close to his body and murmured a warning. 

Then, Malfoy’s fingers pressed just the right spot, and Harry couldn’t hold back any longer. He came with a shout, his whole body pulsing with white-hot pleasure as he emptied himself into Malfoy’s sucking mouth. 

Malfoy grunted and swallowed every bit, his pretty eyelashes fluttering, and then he was up on his knees, a feral look in his eyes as he stripped his cock with quick, efficient movements. Harry watched the head poke through his fist, a hard, angry red, and then Malfoy was coming, striping Harry’s belly and cock with his hot spunk. His thighs trembled and shook as his climax ebbed and he milked the last few drops from his softening prick. It was quite the sight, and Harry was pretty sure he could watch Malfoy wank every day and never get bored. 

“Well,” said Harry, still slightly dazed as he recovered. “That was . . .”

“Indeed,” said Malfoy, breathless as he flopped down onto the bed close to, but not touching, Harry. Harry reached out to stroke his shoulder in an automatic gesture, enjoying the feel of Malfoy’s solid muscles. He was still in good shape, but not as broad across the chest as Harry. Malfoy’s arm still held the traces of the Dark Mark, but it was so faded the shape was barely discernible. He decided it wasn’t worth mentioning. Instead, he rubbed his thumb over one of Malfoy’s flat, pink nipples, watching while it hardened. When he pinched it, Malfoy let out a little hiss, but in a way that let Harry know he liked it. He shivered and arched under Harry’s touch like a big cat, and when Harry grazed the sensitive curve of his hip, Malfoy gave him a wry smile. 

“I’m not a Crup, you know.” 

“Mmm. I think you like it.” Malfoy’s skin was flushed, his eyes lively. Harry bit his bottom lip and cupped Malfoy’s soft prick. There was something almost cute about it, but Harry would never tell Malfoy lest he get hexed.

“Are you trying to kill me, Potter?” 

“I definitely don’t want to do that. I’d prefer to go again.” 

“Bloody insatiable Gryffindors,” Malfoy said, but he didn’t sound like he was complaining.

***

And so Draco started shagging Harry Potter on a regular basis. Regular was a variable term, however; sometimes they saw each other twice a week, sometimes more, and sometimes they went several weeks at a time without speaking. Draco told himself he was fine with the arrangement, which didn’t have a label because they never spoke of their fling or tried to define it. They were too old for such things. In order to avoid comment, they rarely met in public. On occasion they met for drinks at the Leaky, but they never left together. Harry never stayed long after sex, not wanting to run into Scorpius and Albus at the Manor, and Draco didn’t linger at his flat, either.

When they did meet, it was always with the same passion and intensity. Harry made love with a singular focus and determination that Draco had never experienced before. He was incredibly generous, adventurous, and never shy when expressing his preferences. In short, it was terrifying and perfect, and Draco was sure it couldn’t last. He knew precisely what he would have told himself had he been an advice-seeker and that ignoring said advice would come at his own peril, but he couldn’t resist or deny Harry anything. He couldn’t deny himself, either, not when he was really living for the first time in years. 

In July, Harry decided to have a birthday party for himself in his ridiculously tiny flat, and he invited Draco. 

“You don’t have to go if you feel uncomfortable,” Harry said, his tone too blasé to be genuine. 

“Of course I’ll bloody go.” Draco flung an arm across his face to hide his uncertainty. Leave it to Potter to spring such a question right after an incredible orgasm, making it virtually impossible to object. Whoever said Gryffindors weren’t manipulative? 

“Great,” Harry said, and Draco glimpsed him smiling out of the corner of his eye. 

“But won’t people think it’s strange for me to be there?” 

Harry shrugged. “I’ve told Ron and Hermione we’ve become friends.” 

Draco snorted. 

“It’s not like it will be a huge crowd. Plus,” Harry continued, “Scorpius and Al will be there. I think it will be nice to present a united front. Show we’re okay with them being together.” 

“One big, happy family.” 

“Exactly. I’m glad you agree.” Obviously missing—or ignoring—the sarcasm in his voice, Harry rolled over, giving Draco an eyeful of his slim hips and softening prick. He was damnably attractive, probably even more attractive than he’d been as a younger man. It was the way he carried himself, unselfconscious and comfortable in his own skin in a way Draco had always admired. 

“I suppose this means I have to buy you a present.” For his own birthday in June, Harry had gifted him with a signed first edition copy of the _Book of Potions,_ which must have cost a bloody fortune. Harry had told Draco he’d found it while sorting through possessions with Ginny at Grimmauld, but he was a terrible liar.

“Don’t trouble yourself. But I will take another bottle of that great wine.” 

“You actually drank it? You heathen. And I wasn’t even invited.” Draco sniffed and sat up, arranging the sheet around his hips. At Draco’s suggestion, Harry had invested in the finest Egyptian Wizarding cotton, and the fabric was soft as a Kneazle’s belly. 

“You told me you had loads in your cellar. I’ll invite you next time,” Harry said, his warm arm wrapping around Draco’s waist. “Don’t be angry.” 

Of course, Draco wasn’t really angry, but he liked the extra attention when Harry was solicitous. He leaned back as Harry kissed his shoulder and the sensitive skin at the base of his neck. “I’ll forgive you,” he said, turning his head to brush his lips against Harry’s, “but I’ll have to be convinced.” 

“However will I do that?” Harry’s hand rubbed his belly and then lower to fondle his soft prick. 

Draco smirked. “I’m sure you’ll find a way.” 

On the evening of the party, Draco arrived with Scorpius at the designated time to find a living room filled with Weasleys, Harry’s children—even the eldest, who Harry thought was cross with him—and Teddy and Andromeda. Luna and Longbottom arrived not long after, and Draco exchanged a nod with Luna, who returned it with a curious smile, no doubt wondering why he was there. Longbottom said ‘hello’ with a look that was a bit too knowing for Draco’s liking.

Ginerva was nowhere to be seen, and Draco breathed out, not realising he’d been concerned about an encounter until he felt his shoulders relax. He grabbed a champagne flute and found a quiet corner on the couch next to Andromeda. 

“Hello, dear,” she said, giving him a pat on the hand. “It’s lovely to see you here with Scorpius. My, they grow up so fast, don’t they?” 

Draco tracked her gaze to where his son stood with Albus Potter, their heads close together as they shared a furtive kiss, and Draco smiled, a pang going through his chest at the same time. From a distance, they looked so much like he and Harry at their age. A whole different life flashed before his eyes as he imagined what it would have been like if he hadn’t been on the wrong side of the war. Would he and Harry have been friends, even lovers? 

“They do at that,” he said, nodding at Teddy. Now over thirty, he looked so much like Lupin it was startling, though he had his mother’s hair.

Musing over the past was pointless, of course, and Draco couldn’t regret marrying Astoria. If he hadn’t, Scorpius would never have been born. He was sure Harry felt the same about his children, and he had really loved Ginerva, as much as Draco might not want to think about that now. Love. Something constricted in Draco’s throat and he took a sip of champagne to clear it. 

Finally, Harry appeared out of the kitchen carrying a tray of something that looked like burnt toasts and smelled even worse. “Sorry,” he said apologetically to the Weasleys around him, “I forgot they were in the oven.” Draco’s fingers ached with the need to brush a bit of black ash from Harry’s cheek, but Granger beat him to it.

“It’s a good thing we’ve just ordered some pizza,” said Granger, rubbing the spot away and then vanishing the burnt mess. “Ron’s gone to get it. You shouldn’t be cooking on your birthday anyway.” 

Harry nodded and accepted a bottle of beer from Longbottom as his eyes scanned the crowd, alighting on Draco. His smile was so pleased it did something terrible to Draco’s insides. He both wanted and didn’t want for Harry to come over, sure that his feelings were written all over his face. 

“If you’ll excuse me,” said Andromeda, holding up her empty glass. They both rose as Harry crossed the room. 

“I’m glad you’re here,” said Harry, leaning close once Andromeda was out of earshot. He was freshly shaven, and Draco spied a little dried blood on his chin where he’d nicked himself. He insisted on using a Muggle razor no matter how vigorously Draco extolled his perfected shaving charm. _You can’t teach an old dog new tricks,_ Harry had said. He loved to use Muggle expressions to get Draco riled up, and Draco played along. “Where’s my present?” Harry’s eyes twinkled.

“I can’t give it to you in polite company,” said Draco, arching an eyebrow. 

“Pizza!” came a cry from the door as Ronald Weasley entered with three steaming boxes. 

“Or impolite company, as the case may be.” 

Harry rolled his eyes and squeezed his arm, and then he was whisked away by Fleur Weasley née Delacour to meet an old Beauxbaton friend visiting from Iceland. 

The woman in question was quite beautiful, with raven black hair and an animated smile, and after the introduction was made and Fleur disappeared, Draco realised it was a set up. Swift and sure, jealousy curdled in the pit of Draco’s stomach as the woman touched Harry’s arm and laughed, as though he’d said something funny. 

Jealousy had never been a good look on him, and he hated feeling that way now. He had no reason to dislike the woman, not even when Harry smiled at her, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He was angry at himself, more than anything. This was the future he faced when Harry found someone else, someone he could actually date in public. Whether that was tonight or a year from now, a woman or a man, it made no difference.

“This is for you,” said a voice to his left. He turned to find Luna holding out a glass of champagne. Draco took it and vanished his empty.

“Thank you.” He wrenched his eyes away from Harry and the Beauxbaton, giving Luna a small smile. “How did you know I needed it?” 

She lifted an eyebrow in reply.

“Salazar, am I that obvious?” 

“Only to someone watching closely. When did you start sleeping with Harry?” Draco nearly spit out his next sip of champagne. Sometimes he thought Luna really did have powers of Sight. She smiled enigmatically. “Have you told him yet?” 

“That I’m M. Grey? No. He’ll be angry I kept it from him for so long.” 

“I mean that you love him.” 

“I don’t . . . It’s just casual.” He could hardly get the words out, and they sounded untrue even to his own ears. He hadn’t slept with anyone since that first night with Potter. Even if nobody else knew that fact, he couldn't exactly hide it from himself.

She laid a hand on his forearm. “You should tell him.” 

“Perhaps you’d like to take over my advice column as well?” Draco whispered, his pulse thudding as Harry looked over. He wasn’t with the woman anymore; he was standing with his eldest, James. Draco thought his heart might burst out of his chest. “I can’t,” he said. 

Several hours later, the last of the guests had left, and Draco and Scorpius sat with Albus and Harry around his small kitchen table, finishing up a bottle of wine. The evening had been surprisingly pleasant: Draco had spoken with Granger about the latest fertility potions she was using in her work as a Healer and even Weasley had engaged him in a conversation about the upcoming World Cup. Now, sitting with their sons around the intimate table, Draco was a bit muzzy and tired, but happy. 

At one in the morning, Scorpius yawned and stretched. “I’ve got practice in the morning,” he said. “Better get a move on.” 

Albus stood so quickly he nearly knocked over his chair. So eagerness ran in the family, Draco thought, rubbing his finger around the rim of his glass. 

“You’re not too drunk to Apparate, are you Dad?” Scorpius asked, a firm grip on Draco’s shoulder. 

At some point in the last several years, his son had started treating him as though he were the child. He supposed it was a common enough annoyance, as Potter’s children seemed equally convinced of his ineptitude. Draco waved him off. “No, no. I’ll use the Floo.” 

“Stay and finish your glass of wine, at least,” Harry said. “I wanted to ask you about that hair colouring potion you mentioned earlier.” 

Albus thumped his father on the back and nodded at Draco. “See you later, old man. Mr Malfoy.” 

“Call me Draco, please.” 

“Fifty isn’t old, by the way,” Harry called after his son. “I just have grey hair.” 

The boys were gone quickly, their lingering looks and touches making it clear no sleeping would be happening in the near future, no matter what time Scorpius was due on the pitch. 

“Hair potion?” Draco asked with a snigger once they were alone. 

Harry set down his glass and shrugged. “It was the only thing I could think of, and I wanted . . . I wanted my present.” 

Draco swallowed the last bit of his wine, heat already pooling in his belly. “Shall we?” 

Harry’s bedroom was dark and quiet, a relief after the long hours of socializing, but Draco didn’t want to rest. He had been thinking of this moment all day, wanting to be alone with Harry, to feel his lips and hands and cock. 

They undressed quickly, all ceremony lost, and fell together on Harry’s wide bed. Draco whispered a lumos charm to light the candles on the side table. He wanted to see Harry underneath him. 

“It’s sexy when you do wandless magic,” Harry said, his voice muffled against Draco’s skin.

“I know,” Draco said, rather smugly. He had never claimed to be self-effacing. “And there’s more where that came from.” 

“Let’s see what else you have for me.” 

Harry gripped Draco’s hardening prick and started to stroke it slowly, teasing over the head with every pass just how Draco liked it. Draco hissed in a breath and bucked his hips to seek more friction as he reached for Harry, gratified to find him hard, wetness already seeping from his slit. Some nights when they were together, this was all they did, bringing each other off with their hands. Other nights, they used their mouths and fingers or frotted against each other until they were both breathless. 

Draco wanted more tonight, and he hoped Harry did too. Just as Harry began to increase the pace of his motions, Draco stilled his hand. “Wait. I want to come with you inside of me.” 

Harry’s eyes widened in the dim light. “Okay. Um. How?” 

Though Potter wasn’t an inarticulate oaf like Draco had imagined at school, he certainly could be when he had an erection. Draco smiled and reached for him, urging him to move between Draco’s spread thighs. He’d prepared himself earlier in the night, and he’d been mildly aroused ever since then, knowing what was to come. When Harry reached between his legs and found his slick hole, he cried out. Harry’s finger penetrated easily, sliding in deep. 

“Merlin, Malfoy,” said Harry. “You’ve been planning this.” 

“Observant as always, Potter. Must be all that Auror training.”

Draco whuffed a sigh as Harry smacked him across the chest. But his breath left him in earnest when Harry added a second finger, his grin almost feral as he conjured more lube with a wandless charm. “Happy birthday to me.” 

Draco writhed on Harry’s fingers, pulling his own cock with slow strokes as he watched Harry slather wetness along his thick shaft. It was mouthwatering, but Draco forced his eyes away to focus on Harry’s expression as he readied himself. 

There was that singular focus, that possessive glare as he aimed, the flared head of his cock pressing against Draco’s hole. Draco lifted his knees for better access, and Harry braced himself over Draco’s body, his hips angling down as he entered in one long insistent thrust. The stretch made Draco groan and his eyes fluttered closed in spite of himself. He grasped Harry’s waist with both hands, pulling him in deeper until Harry bottomed out and they were as close as two people could be.

“You feel . . .” Harry’s voice was hoarse, almost reverent. “Is that good?” 

Draco was deliciously full and ready, all of his sensitive nerve endings tingling with arousal. “Mmm, yes. You can move.” 

Harry covered him with the length of his body, his arms bracketing Draco’s head, and they looked at each other as he withdrew and started to thrust with long, sure strokes. His hips moved fluidly, pumping deeper and deeper until Draco felt entirely taken over. He couldn’t tell where Harry ended and he began, and he cursed Luna for making him confront his feelings. All these months, he’d thought he’d safeguarded his heart, but Harry was breaking it wide open with his ridiculous hair and his perfect mouth and his honest, wrecked expression. 

Pushing those thoughts away, Draco let himself float on the waves of building desire, his cock so hard and leaking he was sure he would come with the slightest pressure. Harry rocked against him, his movements growing more emphatic, his grunts louder.

“Fuck me. Fuck me. Fuck me. Yes, like that.” Draco was babbling but couldn’t seem to stop. He held on for dear life as Harry rode him, as damnably good at fucking as Draco knew he would be. How could he possibly give this up? 

“Gods, Draco,” Harry gasped. “I’m going to come.” 

Draco squeezed his legs around Harry’s hips and met his mouth in a sloppy kiss. “Do it, do it. Fill me up.” 

Harry let out a long groan and slammed into Draco one, two, three times as his climax erupted. His belly rubbed over Draco’s desperate prick, and Draco pleaded for his release, his bollocks tight and throbbing with the need to come. 

Still fucking his softening prick into Draco, Harry bit down on Draco’s neck and gripped his cock between their bodies. That was all it took. Draco arched and cried out as he rippled and pulsed with white-hot pleasure, the release so powerful he almost blacked out.

Long minutes passed before either of them made a move to clean themselves, and when they finally did, Draco found he could barely move.

“I don’t know if I can put on my clothes, even with magic,” he groaned at the ceiling. 

Harry laughed as he performed the cleansing charms. He looked happy and far younger than his fifty years. “So don’t.”

“The last thing the house-elves need is for me to appear starkers in the Floo.”

Harry grabbed Draco’s hand and pressed his lips against it. “I meant stay. Stay the night with me. It is my birthday after all.” 

Something thick caught in the back of Draco’s throat, and he swallowed it down. He was positive that Harry didn’t know what he was asking. “Okay.” 

Of course Harry was a cuddler. Draco found himself lying in the darkness encircled in warm arms, warm breath tickling the back of his neck. He felt certain he would never fall asleep, but sometime later, he did.

***

The night after the party, Draco was acting strange. Harry woke in good spirits only to find his bed empty and Draco hastily dressing, hardly meeting Harry’s gaze. When Harry asked if he wanted to have breakfast, Draco insisted he had a meeting, though it was Sunday, and Flooed away with a peremptory kiss on the cheek and a promise to Owl soon. He was almost acting like Harry had done something wrong, and Harry was confused.

The last few months had been brilliant, but Harry wasn’t sure where they stood. They had never spoken about it, and Harry was happy enough going with the flow not to question things too thoroughly. Now, he thought he might have to. 

Still. 

_Dear M. Grey,_

_It’s me again. I won’t bother with the pseudonym because I’m sure you know I’m Harry Potter. You gave me such good advice last time, I’m gratefully hoping you can help me with a private matter without publishing it in your column._

_Ever since my separation, I’ve been seeing a man on a casual basis. He is an old school acquaintance, also divorced, and we get along surprisingly well. I enjoy being with him, and the sex is the best I’ve had. We haven’t spoken about the future of our relationship, but recently I get the feeling he isn’t entirely happy with our arrangement._

_The problem is, I’m not sure what I want either. I was with the same woman for thirty years, and to jump into another exclusive relationship right now seems hasty. My friends keep telling me to date, and one of them even introduced me to an attractive woman who expressed obvious interest. However, I find myself wanting to be with this man, and that scares me. I don’t know if it’s real or just a rebound relationship. What if I’m only interested because I don’t want to face being alone?_

_Confused,  
H.P._

Satisfied with what he’d written, Harry posted the Owl and hoped for a reply. On the following day, however, he was due back at the Ministry, and briefings of what had gone on in his absence took up the entire day. The rest of the week was more of the same, and Harry soon found himself lost back in the rhythm of work/eat/sleep he had lived for most of his life. It was comforting but also unsatisfying. He had changed in such a fundamental way over the last few months, but nothing else had. 

He couldn’t tell Ron or Neville or even Hermione, because then he would have to explain about Draco, and Draco wasn’t currently speaking to him. Harry had Floo-called and Owled and even visited the Manor, but the house-elves had turned him away saying Draco wasn’t home, their ears fluttering nervously as they always did when asked to lie for their master.

Harry missed him. And then he had a suspicion. 

And the suspicion grew into a certainty when a small Owl tapped his beak against Harry’s window. Harry sucked in a breath out as he unfurled the parchment and read the familiar scrawl.

_Harry,_

_I’m M. Grey. I know I should have told you a long time ago, but I was worried you would think I urged you to leave Ginerva for my own benefit. I can assure you now that I did not intend to break up your marriage, no matter what has happened between us since. I hope you can forgive me._

_I know you didn’t intend for me to read your latest letter, and for that intrusion I am also sorry, but I think it may have been for the best. I would have told you, if I had replied as M. Grey, that you should take some time and work out your feelings. I’m not a Mind Healer, but maybe you should get used to being alone before making any major decisions. I can’t blame you, Harry. I know how it is to be free after a long marriage, and I don’t want to hold you back from exploring what, and who, the world has to offer._

_I hope you find what you’re looking for._

_Draco._

Harry closed his eyes and rubbed a hand over his forehead, feeling slightly ill. He wasn’t entirely surprised that Draco was M. Grey, and he supposed he should have put two and two together before this. Still, he couldn’t help being irritated at Draco for hiding the truth. _Just like he was in school,_ said a petty voice in his brain, but Harry knew he wasn’t being entirely fair. 

He folded up the note and finished dressing for work, readying himself for a day of tedious meetings. 

The first hour of work was spent discussing a recent article in the _Daily Prophet,_ in which an anonymous source claimed Harry was running for Minister in place of Percy Weasley, who was slated to step down at the end of his third term. 

Harry had no idea how the rumour had gotten started since he had no interest in the job, but the public seemed to love the idea, even with the added complexities of the recent scandal. Several Wizengamot officials were pressing Harry to reconsider, but he politely declined, his mind returning again to Draco’s note. 

He hadn’t kicked up a fuss at the idea of letting Harry go, and that thought was the most painful of all. Maybe Harry’s crisis of conscience over the future of their relationship had all been for nothing. His note had been so understanding, so calm, with none of the Malfoy fire Harry had come to relish. It was all so civilized. 

But then, they were adults, not children. Perhaps it was better this way. 

“Mr Potter,” the Wizengamot official was saying, her voice cutting through his reverie. “Mr Potter, please do let us know if you change your mind.” 

Harry nodded absently. 

On Wednesday, Harry sat down across from Ron and Neville and took a deep breath. “I think I’m going to resign.” 

Ron made a pfft sound and sprayed his beer across the table. Neville frowned slightly and leaned forward. “Is everything okay, Harry?” 

“This isn’t because of . . . you know, is it?” Ron added. 

“No, nothing to do with that. This isn’t a spur of the moment decision,” Harry said. “I haven’t been happy at work in a while, and I didn’t realise it until now.” 

“So what will you do?” Neville asked. 

“You’re too young to retire, mate,” said Ron. “You’ll be bored as a Boggart with no one to scare.” 

“Well, I haven’t quite worked out the details, but I’m thinking of starting a magical tutoring support service for Muggleborns. I keep thinking of my first year at Hogwarts. It was wonderful in a lot of ways, but there was so much I didn’t know that put me at a disadvantage, academically at least. We could work with the Muggleborns as they are identified and help them with the transition to magical life.” 

Ron and Neville were regarding him with twinned expressions of disbelief. 

“Is it that horrible?” Harry was doubting himself; it sounded so much better in his head.

“No, actually. I think it’s a wonderful idea. Honestly, I can’t believe no one has thought to do it until now.” Neville broke into a huge smile, and Harry felt his body relax.

“Good on you, mate. I agree. Tops.” Ron raised his pint and they all clinked glasses as conversation turned to logistics. Harry wasn’t concerned with the funding; he could provide all of the necessary capital to get started. What they would need, however, were adult Wizards willing to take on tutoring a child. 

“Well, you have us to start, at least,” said Neville. “And I’m sure Luna will be on board.” 

“‘Mione, too,” said Ron. “She’s not as busy at St. Mungo’s now that she cut down her hours. I’m sure she’d be happy to help with curriculum.”

Harry nodded, grabbing out a quill to jot down some notes. Excitement made his blood rush faster; now that he’d actually told someone about his idea, it made it seem more real and far more attainable. 

“What about Malfoy,” said Ron. “The two of you are mates now. I’m sure he’ll want to be involved.” 

Harry sucked in a deep breath and nodded, not wanting to get into the complexities of his personal life. His friends didn’t seem to notice anything amiss, and they adjourned their pub night with an outline of next steps.

He only wished he had Draco there to share it with.

***

_Dear M. Grey,_

_My mother-in-law is complaining about my cooking . . . _No. No. No.__

___I can’t decide whether to do my NEWTs or go on a trip to America . . ._ Please. No._ _

___I’ve recently developed a relationship with a ghost. Is it possible to fall in love with someone who’s been dead for a hundred years?_ Finally something worth reading. _ _

__After a productive morning of sorting through his mail, Draco pushed his rejection pile to the side and took a sip of tea, his eyes scanning the morning_ Prophet. Potter’s Midlife Crisis Continues, Resigns Aurors to Start Muggleborn Charity_, read the headline, startling Draco so that he almost spilled the hot liquid on himself. It had been months since Potter had graced the front page, and now here he was, smiling at a group of reporters, each eagerly holding a quill.

He looked good standing proudly on the front steps of the Ministry. Draco’s chest twisted and butterflies swarmed his stomach. He hadn’t seen Harry for almost two months, and his picture was like water to parched desert sand. Not able to help himself, he traced the lines of Harry’s face with the tip of his finger, soaking him up. 

The article itself was more approving than the title suggested, and Draco found himself fascinated to read Harry’s plans for a charity to help Muggleborn children transition to school. It was a brilliant idea, as far as Draco was concerned, and it seemed Harry had received plenty of help from his friends to prepare for the launch, which was slated for the next month. It hurt a little that he hadn’t been asked, but he hadn’t really expected a reply to his last confessional Owl. 

A few minutes later, the front door chimed. 

“Can you get that, Moxie?” Draco called to his elf. Whoever it was, the wards hadn’t reacted, which meant it was likely Pansy, who had promised to take a break from shagging Blaise—they were on again—to pay him a visit.

When Moxie didn’t respond and the chime rang again, Draco pushed himself up from his chair with a huff and went to the door. 

He wasn’t prepared for Potter, not one bit.

“Hello,” said Harry, giving Draco a nervous smile. “Can I come in?” 

Draco stood speechless in the foyer as Potter adjusted his wool robes. He’d had a recent hair cut, and the grey at his temples stood out. Draco thought it looked distinguished.

“I believe congratulations are in order,” said Draco when it seemed clear Harry was only there to stare at him. 

“Ah, yes. Thanks. I take it you read the _Prophet_ this morning?” 

Draco nodded. “And you quit your job. Pansy seemed to think you were going to run for Minister.” 

“No, Godric no. I never wanted that.” 

“You would have looked smashing in Minister’s robes,” Draco couldn’t help saying. He was too caught off-guard, too aware of how it had been that first night when he had brought Harry home and they’d kissed in front of the door like randy teenagers. 

“Well, I could always get some for a role play.” Harry was more at ease now, his eyes crinkling around the corners. It was easy—dangerously so—to slip into their old dynamic. 

“Potter—”

“Wait.” Harry held up his hand. “Just hear me out. I know things went tits up between us, and most of that was my fault. I should have written you back right away, but I was angry.”

“I shouldn’t have lied to you.” Draco resisted the urge to look away. He squared his shoulders and watched as Harry struggled to find his words.

“Well, yes. But that wasn’t the main reason. It seemed to me, from your note, that you were happy to let me go. That it—that we—didn’t matter to you. But I’ve had some time to think and please, stop me if I’m wrong, but I’m hoping that isn’t true.”

He looked at Draco with his bloody stupid, honest face.

“It’s not,” Draco said. Harry sucked in a sharp breath as he continued. “I didn’t want you to feel obligated to me if I was just an experiment. I know you Gryffindors have an overdeveloped sense of honor. I didn’t want you to miss out on anything.” 

Harry closed the distance between them and put a tentative hand on Draco’s face, cupping his jaw. “The only thing I’ve been missing is you.” 

“You’re an idiot,” Draco whispered. 

Harry’s thumb stroked across his lips. “Maybe so, but I’m your idiot, if you’ll have me.” 

“Harry,” Draco said, a little breathless already, and then Harry crushed their lips together. The kiss was full of the urgency of months of denial and the tentative hope of things to come. Draco kissed back, wrapping his arms around Harry’s back to bring him closer. It felt so good to hold him again, to know this was real.

“Are you sure?” he finally asked as they broke away and looked at each other. “Are you really ready to tell people about us?” He wanted to do this with Harry, but he didn’t want to be a big, gay dark secret. If they were in, they were in all the way.

Harry nodded, still holding onto Draco as though he might Disapparate at any moment. “I’d like to tell the kids first, if that’s okay with you. I think Al and Lily will be happy. James might be a little put out, but he’ll get over it. He’s helping me with recruiting volunteers for the foundation.” 

Draco could hardly believe what he was hearing. “That would be fine.” he said faintly. 

“There’s so much to tell you,” said Harry, the lines around his eyes crinkling as he smiled. “And I’m hoping you’ll tell me about what you’ve been doing. Ron loves your column, by the way. He’s always talking about it. You might say he’s obsessed.” 

“Even though he knows it’s me?” 

“I haven’t told him. I think that’s up to you.” 

Draco sighed. “Potter, as always you make it impossible for the rest of us to live up to your heroic nature.” 

“That’s not true,” said Harry. “I didn’t tell because . . . you knew it was me, when you wrote your reply to my first letter. It would have been a huge story, but you didn’t tell anyone. We were hardly friends then. And you gave me good advice on top of it all. Why?” 

Draco sniffed. “I suppose I knew how it felt to be in such a situation; well, I knew enough. I admired you for having the courage to admit the truth. So few of us can do that.” 

The pleased expression on Potter’s face nearly lit up the room. “See? There’s more Gryffindor in you than you realise.” 

“Do not ever, ever say that in public, Potter, or I’ll hex you. I swear to Salazar I will.” In spite of himself, Draco leaned in to nuzzle Harry’s neck.

“Your secret is safe with me,” Harry said, squeezing tight, and Draco knew that his heart was safe as well.


End file.
